The Art of a Brush

It was time.

Actually, let's be honest, it was past time... by about 3 years. The last time I got my hair cut, I was standing in my own living room, head upside down, instructing my very nervous husband exactly when and where to snip. I was trying a little trick I learned on YouTube the previous day and, let's just be brief by saying, it ended badly. I tried to convince myself that mullets were coming back in - and that girls could sport them. But who was I kidding! Over the course of the next three days, we hacked away at it a little here and there until I felt a little more willing to show my face in public. Enter in the pony-tails and that's about where we've been for the last two years.

I guess Brian got a little tired of me complaining about my hair (or perhaps he got tired of looking at it) because a couple of weeks ago he excitedly mentioned that he had set up an appointment for me at a nice salon in the mountains. I was leaving the next day, kid free, to spend a few days with him. Relaxing in his apartment, touring the awesome city he lives in, reading during the days while he was working, and now... getting my hair done. I actually don't like getting my hair done. I'm not very good at small talk, plus I feel nervous about providing an adequate 'happy' reaction when the final look is presented. But, as Brian knew, I'd be happy once it was over.

I walked into the salon with my long hair in a thin pony-tail, dangling down in it's usual pattern and said hello to my stylist, Brett. Permanent smile, twinkly blue eyes, and a thick, stylish, sandy brown mohawk bleached blond at the tips. Yep, I thought to myself, he fits the part of a stylist. Warm and friendly, Brett put me at ease quickly - not unlike how I imagine I would feel around an older brother if I had one. He sat next to me and we talked for a while about what I was looking for - I showed him pictures and he gave me some suggestions...

"Alright!" he said, "I've got the look for you! Do you know how to use a brush?"
Odd question, I thought. Who doesn't know how to use a hairbrush? But his tone was serious, as if it wouldn't be weird at all for me to say no. My ego boosted. "Yep," I said. I use one every day! Why, I used one this very morning to put my hair up in this ponytail.

Soon my nostrils filled with the scent of hair color as the foils and highlights were painted, strip by strip, into my drab hair. An hour later, I looked like a frizzy martian as I sank into the cushions of a bay window to read my book, watch the people walk by, and wait for the highlights to do their damage. A wash, a rinse, and then clumps of hair - my hair - hit the ground with finality. I watched every move in the mirror in front of my chair, and I was happy with what I was seeing. The blow-dryer whizzed into action and a large, round brush came out of the drawer next to Brett's arm.

"Now we just blow it out with the brush!" he said. He set to work pinning up portions of hair to dry others. Some he curled under, some he curled over, some he didn't curl at all. I found myself studying his moves, questions filling my brain. I started to ask them, but then I remembered... Do you know how to use a brush, he had said.

Oh dear.

It was too late now. Besides, what would I say to him? So, do you remember that time you asked me if I knew how to use a brush? Well, you see, I thought you meant a regular hairbrush - of which I know all the rules - start at the top and move to the bottom, you know... I felt like an idiot. Of course he didn't mean a regular hairbrush! Who doesn't know how to use a regular old hairbrush?! But this... this thing he was using looked much more complicated.

I watched and searched for answers to my own questions in his work. How hard can it be, right? My hair looked awesome for two days - but then it was time to wash it. And dry it. Dry it. With that thing. I tried, I really did, but I only have two arms, and I'm pretty sure you need a third in there somewhere to help out. Plus, that round brush seems to have a mind of it's own on whether or not it will actually hold the hair I intend it to, and sometimes it decides to curl only the top half of the lock and leave it sticking out like a bad case of bed-head. Other times it curls it violently, leaving me with poofy anchor-woman hair.

Well, I've done it four times now, all by myself (thank you), with varying degrees of success. All I ask is that, if you see me walking around town with a funny looking curl in the middle of my head, just don't say anything.

It's not my fault... it's that blasted brush. (That's what we who are in-the-know call a round brush these days.)